


What Makes A Man

by DisposalUnit



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Ableist language/thoughts, Adaptive Sex Practices for Sexual Disability, Angst, Castration, Domestic Violence, Emasculation, Established Relationship, Genital Torture, Healing Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Permanent Injury, Psychological Trauma, Reese whump, Sexist language/thoughts, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DisposalUnit/pseuds/DisposalUnit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reese is captured by a criminal organization and tortured for information about his employer.</p><p>But for John, protecting Finch is worth more than <i>anything</i>.</p><p>The aftermath will be difficult for them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Wasn't sure what to put for the Archive Warnings. The "additional tags" section should be warning enough.
> 
> This first chapter isn't terribly explicit about the torture, but later chapters will be when it comes to the sexual stuff.

Unbelievable dumb luck.

Of all the shops and eating establishments on that block, the Number had dashed through the cafe where half a dozen of Zakayev’s men were having tea. And after Reese had broken past them in seconds to continue after the Number, it had only been more dumb luck that another of Zakayev’s men had stepped out of the bathroom, putting himself between Reese and the back door, slowing Reese just enough that a member of the kitchen staff loyal to Zakayev could approach from behind and knock him out with a meat tenderizer to the head.

And now Reese found himself zip-tied and rope-bound to what appeared to be a surprisingly-sturdy old dentist’s chair, his thighs spread and each ankle bound to the underside of the leg-rest. He was in an obviously long-disused building, strewn with trash, a blazingly-bright worklight on a stand six feet to his right. His captors had, wisely, removed every stitch of Reese’s clothing, to be sure he wasn’t hiding weapons or anything with which he might free himself. No doubt his cellphone and earwig had been destroyed long before he was brought here.

Zakayev himself stood before him, just inside the cone of brightness, not speaking. He took his time smoking a cigarette, soon casually approaching to blowing smoke into Reese’s eyes. Reese blinked against the sting but didn’t say a word.

When the cigarette’s burning orange ember had nearly reached the filter, Zakayev stepped forward and pressed it against Reese’s inner thigh to snuff it out. Through clenched jaw and closed lips, Reese panted and tried to hold back his roar of pain.

“It is good to see you again, my friend,” Zakayev said gently with only a slight Russian accent. “I wasn’t sure that I would see you again, after that stunt you pulled last month. Temporarily crippling my operation.”

Reese looked up at him with a slight smirk. “It was just another workday for me,” he said softly. It was true.

Zakayev smirked back. “I thought you would have left the city. Perhaps left the country.”

Reese shrugged. If he were to run away after every time he did damage to a crime syndicate in the course of saving or stopping a Number, he’d never be around.

A wider smile. “I have to admit it, my friend-- To stick around-- You have balls.” He chuckled, tilting his head to get a better look between Reese’s legs.

Reese’s gut clenched, but he didn’t show it in his face.

“I’ve been trying to find information on you. You seem to be a thorn in the side of every criminal organization in New York, and it seems everyone knows _of_ you. But no one seems to know who you are. Or why your employer sends you out to interfere with so many of our business endeavors. I thought you might be a freelancer, but no one seems to know how to hire you, either.” Zakayev lit another cigarette. “The only thing anyone seems to know is that you’re sometimes seen with a man who wears fancy suits, glasses and walks with a limp.”

John tried to remain expressionless.

“I know that man is your employer. And I want him to pay for all the damage you’ve caused. So tell me-- How can I find him?”

Reese remained impassive, silent as a stone.

Zakayev took a long drag and blew smoke into Reese’s face again. “An unruly dog comes into _my_ yard.” He put a meaty hand on Reese’s shoulder, shaking him gently, as though they were close buddies having a friendly conversastion over beers. “Pisses all over _my_ business, costing me millions.” Another long drag. More smoke burning in Reese’s eyes. “But I don’t blame the dog. I blame the _owner._

“A _responsible_ owner doesn’t let his dog run around wild, pissing on other people’s things.” He grinned. “I have nothing against you. I’d much rather teach your owner a lesson. But I can’t do that unless you tell me how to find him.”

Reese stared straight ahead, heart pounding. Zakayev had plenty of experience with interrogation. That meant that any information, even false information, was just a foothold for him to extract more and more, until he found the truth. In this case, only Reese’s silence could guarantee Finch’s safety.

_I will not be broken._

“I saw a big ad poster as I passed by a bus stop the other day. Do you know what it said?”

Reese’s eyes didn’t move, staring straight ahead.

“It said ‘Responsible Pet Parents Spay and Neuter.’” He laughed as Reese’s eye twitched. “ _Pet parents_. Is that what we call them these days? I dunno. But it’s not a bad idea, this neuter operation.” He pulled a folding metal chair out of the shadows and sat right up close to his captive, on Reese’s left side, but unfortunately just out of range for a headbutt.

“Neutered dogs are less likely to piss in places they’re not supposed to.”

Reese was able to maintain a stoic expression, but he couldn’t help the color draining from his face.

Zakayev suddenly pressed the lit end of his cigarette to the left side of Reese’s scrotum. Reese tried to choke back his scream but was only somewhat successful. He strained and jerked against his bonds in desperation, but they held fast, the zip ties cutting into his flesh. He panted, sweat dripping down his face and body.

A glint of shiny metal caught his eye as he tried to regain his composure. Zakayev was testing the sharpness of an obviously well-used box cutter against his fingernail.

“Are you certain you don’t want to tell me how to find this irresponsible dog owner? If you don’t, I’m going to have to get started with the operation.”

Mental images of Harold being hurt, tortured, flooded John’s mind. _I will not be broken._

“Remember, you can put a stop to this at any time. Just tell me what I need to know, and you’re a free man.”

A mental image of Harold lying on a filthy concrete floor, bound, bloody and terribly still, made John’s stomach turn. _I will not be broken._

Zakayev shook his head in disappointment at Reese’s stubbornness, then made a dissatisfied sound at the dullness of the box cutter blade. “I should have had one of my men stop by the hardware store and get a new one.” He set the blade on his own knee, rolled up his sleeves and pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket, snapping them on. “Oh well.”

\-----------

“I don’t need backup.”

_“Regardless, Detective Fusco is two minutes from your location, Miss Shaw. Please be aware that he’ll be arriviung shortly.”_

Shaw peeked around the corner of the building, spotting two guards at the door. “He’d better not get in my way.”

 _“I heard that,”_ Lionel piped up on her earwig. _“Thanks for patching me through, Glasses.”_

_“Let’s cease bantering. Mr. Reese’s life may be at stake.”_

“Ten-four.” Shaw punctuated her affirmation with two gunshots, taking down the guards.

Lionel’s car screeched to a halt twenty feet away and he bailed out, gun drawn. But he soon realized that Shaw had already eliminated any immediate threat. “You just had to start without me.”

Shaw shrugged. “Finch said two minutes.”

_“I was being conservative. Now GO!”_

“They had to have heard the shots,” Fusco panted, his back against the wall next to the closed door. “Whoever’s inside, they’ll be ready.”

“I’m readier.” She brandished a ridiculously-large semi-automatic pistol in each hand and made a flying kick, knocking the door in and into the man who’d been cowering on the other side. As he tried to get back up, Shaw cold-cocked him. She started down the hall.

Fusco followed close behind her, down the dark hallway, service pistol at the ready. But they faced no more resistance. When they got to the similarly dark main floorspace, bright daylight could be seen through the still-closing backdoor on the other side of the room, until it came to a rest, plunging the room into nearly complete darkness.

“Shit.”

_“Update, please, Miss Shaw?”_

“Three down, probably low-level,” she said as she ran through the door and down the alley after them. “The rest are running.”

 _“Ms. Shaw, your_ only _priority is to find Mr. Reese.”_

“Fusco can look for him in the building. But if he’s not there, we’ll need to track down these guys all over again, and it would help to know where they’re headed.”

_“Very well. Detective?”_

“I’m looking, but it’s really fucking dark in here,” Fusco muttered. He banged his ankle on something and bent down to find it was a tipped-over worklight, still warm, on a stand. “Here, lemme turn this on.” He righted it and flipped the switch.

\---

_“Jesus Christ. Oh, Jesus Christ. I found him.”_ Fusco’s voice was trembling. _“Shaw, get back in here NOW!”_

_“On my way back.”_

Finch turned the speakerphone volume up so that he could hear the situation more clearly, and looked down to find Bear staring back up at him in concern. Obviously, his tense body language was speaking volumes to the canine.

_“Oh God, oh God. Jesus.”_

Shaw could be heard coming back in through the squeaking door. _“Fuck. Give me your jacket.”_

Clothes could be heard rustling. _“Oh God, is that-? OH GOD,”_ Fusco squeaked. _“Here, I’ll cut the-- Oh Jesus. You got him? Here, let’s lie him down.”_ A grunt. _“Fuck fuck fuck…”_

Finch’s heart felt as though it had stopped in his chest, despite the fact he could hear it pounding in his own ears. Something was very, very wrong.

On the left-side monitor, Finch initiated his new Medical Emergency Protocol, sending automated text messages to Drs. Tillman and Enright, alerting them that they were needed at the new ‘medical safehouse,’ which had the appropriate equipment to function as a sort of private emergency room and makeshift surgery suite. It had been a recent acquisition, which he’d purchased and set up not long after Mr. Reese’s previous life-threatening injury. (Of course, he’d hoped they wouldn’t have to use it anytime soon.) A private ambulance was instructed to proceed, with lights and sirens, to the vacant building where his team was now.

“Detective? Miss Shaw? An update, please?”

 _“He’s alive,”_ she said flatly.

That was excellent news, but Finch was not encouraged by her tone of voice. “And his injuries?”

_“His biggest problem right now is that he’s lost a lot of blood. He’s in shock._

Finch double-checked that the blood inventory at the medical safehouse was adequate and fresh. It was.

“A private ambulance is on the way, ETA five minutes. Drs. Tillman and Enright have responded to my alert. They will arrive at the medical safehouse in eight and twelve minutes, respectively, and prepare for your arrival.”

 _“He’ll need a specialist,”_ Fusco said, uncharacteristic despair being projected through the speakerphone quite clearly.

“What kind of specialist?” Finch struggled to keep panic at bay, his chest tight with worry. He pulled up a pre-made list of various medical and surgical specialists who appeared morally upright but who badly needed large sums of money, then sent a request to Harold Crane’s personal banking concierge to prepare a briefcase containing half a million dollars in cash and to have it ready for him, curbside, in fifteen minutes.

 _“He needs a urologist,”_ Fusco said before Shaw could answer. _“A reconstructive urologist.”_

 _“You should get an andrologist, too,”_ Shaw added.

The significance of those specialties made Finch nauseated. Dizzy. Light-headed, as though his head was detached from his body, floating aimlessly around his deskspace. He made a few more preparations online, including a message to the banking concierge that he would now require a full one million in cash, divided into two briefcases, and then stood to be on his way. He nearly stumbled, he was so shaky, and Bear kept rubbing alongside him, obviously worried.

“I’ll meet you at the rendezvous when I’ve secured the services of the appropriate specialists.” He barely remembered to fetch his car keys before making his way to the stairs. He popped in his earwig on his way across the room and activated it, transferring the call so that he could take the open line with him.

“Bear, _blijf_.”

Bear obediently went to his bed, knowing that meant he was not going along on this excursion.

The haste with which Finch was moving was excruciatingly painful for his hip and back, but he couldn’t even consider slowing down.

Step, step. Step, step. _Oh God, John, what have they done to you? --I can’t think about that now. I have to focus on the tasks at hand._ Step, step. Step, step.

When he finally set foot on the first floor, nausea overpowered him, and if it hadn’t been for his iron grip on the stairway handrail, he would have tumbled to the floor as he crouched forward to vomit.

 _“You okay, Finch?”_ Shaw asked when his retching had stopped.

“…Yes.”

He made it to his car without another word being exchanged.

\----------------------

_Two days later..._

John drowsily blinked his eyes partway open a few times before he was able to keep his immensely-heavy eyelids up. Dimly lit room. Disinfectant smells.

He was laid up again.

He soon became aware of a hand on his own and turned his head. Finch.

“John.” A tiny smile of relief. Weary eyes that obviously hadn’t seen sleep in some time.

John turned his hand palm-upward beneath Harold’s and gave a weak squeeze. “Wh- What happened?” His voice sounded more like a whispered croak than human speech. His body was still waking up, along with his mind.

Harold’s tiny smile disappeared. “You were captured, John.” His face was too pale. Stricken. “But don’t try to think about that right now.” He licked his lips nervously. “Just rest and recover your strength.”

John nodded slightly and closed his eyes, content to do as Finch asked, for the time being. If he’d been tortured again, he should enjoy these memory-free moments while they lasted.

\-----------

_The next day..._

Something cold and moist snuffling against his hand, followed by something warm and moist wriggling against his skin to coat his hand with wetness.

“Bear!” John grinned as he opened his eyes to find the Malinois licking him to wakefulness.

“I apologize, Mr. Reese,” Finch said from his chair nearby, his laptop casting a blue glow across his face in the half-dark room “I only intended for him to sniff you so that he could reassure himself that you’re all right.”

“S’okay,” John sighed, gazing at the dog fondly. Bear’s tail thumped against the floor in returned affection.

 _”An unruly dog comes into_ my _yard...”_

John froze.

_”Neutered dogs are less likely to piss in places they’re not supposed to.”_

Heart pounding, John looked down at himself. He threw the covers off and saw thick gauze bandages, pink fluid seeping through, covering his completely-numb groin and crotch. More bandages covered his left thigh. A catheter emerged from the mass of gauze at his crotch, urine dripping through to the bag at the side of the bed.

“Mr. Reese-”

John’s mind spun. He remembered. He remembered. Zakayev had mutilated him, cut him to pieces, bit by bit, tossing each piece away into the darkness. He’d suffered through every slice of the dull blade, screaming but not giving in, not speaking a word. He must have passed out from blood loss.

He tore at the bandages to see what lay underneath. Oh God, how much of himself was left?

Finch took hold of Reese’s weak and shaking hands, preventing them from opening the dressing any more than they already had.

“Mr. Reese, please calm down.”

“Calm down?!” The heart monitor alarm sounded. He was hyperventilating. “He cut up my-” Light-headedness stole what little strength he had, his head falling back against the pillow, panting, his face ashen.

Tears spilled down Finch’s cheeks, his jaw trembling. “John, I’m so sorry.”

John swallowed back a dry heave. “How- How much is left?”

“You should talk about this with-”

“Finch, how much is left?!”

Finch could only manage a whisper. “...There’s nothing left. All of your external genitalia are gone.”

John pulled his hands back from Finch’s grip and clutched the blanket on either side of himself with white knuckles. His eyes were clenched shut and his teeth gritted in a terrifying grimace, chin to chest, too overcome to even vocalize his rage and grief.

“Detective Fusco tried to find... _the pieces_ ,” Finch went on. “But there was too much garbage littering the room and not enough time. The rats had-” He stopped himself and abandoned that bit of information. “There just wasn’t enough recovered tissue to reattach. The doctors had to take a skin graft from your thigh to cover the wound.” A long pause. “John, I am so sorry.”

From day one, John Reese had been willing to die for this mission, if necessary.

But he couldn’t bear to live like this.

“Get out.”

“John-”

“GET OUT!”

He grabbed the lidded plastic hospital cup off his bedside table and threw it full-force into Finch’s face, just a few feet away, knocking his glasses askew and soaking him with water. Finch could only back up a few steps, stunned. Bear came in between the two men, putting his front feet on the bed next to John, and attempted to lick his Alpha’s face in supplication.

John shoved Bear away. “ _Voruit_ ,” he snarled. The dog obeyed reluctantly, his tail between his legs as he retreated from the room. 

“John, please-”

“I won’t say it again, Finch!” He picked up the antique, probably first-edition book that Finch had left on the same bedside table and wound his arm back in preparation to throw it at Harold, as well. Tears streamed down his cheeks, face red with fury.  

Finch’s every instinct was to go. To do as John ordered, to give him some time alone to process what had been done to him. To let the rage run its course and return when John was in a better state of mind.

But Harold sat on the edge of the bed, below John’s raised arm, and threw himself into a desperate embrace around the man who had come to mean everything.

The book fell.

John sobbed brokenly into Harold’s shoulder, arms limp at his sides.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Reese and Finch don't normally talk about their feelings, but I think this close-call, life-changing situation and the resulting change in John's hormones might bring both of them to open up a bit. So prepare for purple prose.
> 
> And some rather graphic (but not in a sexy way) thoughts from Shaw.

When John awoke, the light had changed. Now a small lamp on the dresser across the room provided the only illumination, besides the small contribution of the city lights that filtered through the closed window blinds. Finch stood at the window in his shirtsleeves, his tie and vest gone, one hand parting the blinds as he gazed out into the distance, the other holding a cup of tea that had long since gone cold.

Hours had obviously passed. John had fallen asleep, exhausted from weeping in Finch’s arms.  Weeping like a little girl, with hormones to match, John thought grimly, tears beginning to well up once again. It was only fitting. He could cry all he wanted and sit down to piss. What a pathetic, broken mess he was. He certainly wasn’t a man anymore. Not by any standard.

Seeing that John had awakened, Finch put the tea aside and gently sat on the edge of the bed, awkwardly turning his upper body so that he could look into his partner’s eyes with concern. “Are you in pain?”

John shook his head. “Still pretty numb.” Even though there wasn’t much light in the room, he could make out a dark purple bruise on Finch’s face, from the bridge of his nose to below his eye. The impact of the heavy, water-filled hospital cup against his glasses and face, no doubt.

“Finch, your eye...” he said softly, his voice still rough and breaking with emotion. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right, John.”

He’d never in his life struck someone he loved. “Hurting you is the last thing I’d ever want to do.” And he’d done it.

“I know, John.”

John would give his life, his _everything_ , to keep Finch from being harmed. He’d withstood Zakayev’s torture and sacrificed his very manhood to protect Harold.

Yet in his anger, his _impotent rage_ , he’d hurt the gentle man, himself. John looked down at his hands, weak from his recent blood loss, but normally capable of killing a man with ease. And capable of hurling an object in rage at a man who’d done nothing but save him, help him and love him. A man John loved far more than his own life.

He clenched his hands into tight fists, nails digging into his palms, his arms shaking with tension. What kind of man would allow his hands to hurt someone who loved him?

Finch took John’s hands in his own, raised them to his lips and slowly, gently, kissed each knuckle in turn until John’s hands began to relax. He scarcely broke his gaze into John’s pained and haunted face, his own eyes filled with tears.

“I forgive you, John. The news was more than any man should have to deal with.” A sniffle to clear his nose and an understanding smile. “And by now, I’m quite used to you trying to push me away when you’re hurting.”

John hung his head and turned away. Finch realized too late that, while he’d meant his remark to show exactly how well he knew John’s behavior patterns and that he loved him anyway, John had taken it to mean that Finch was used to being emotionally hurt by him.

Finch's hands softly pillowed John’s unshaven cheeks with reverence, the whiskers there just long enough to be more soft than scratchy, and leaned close enough to plant a long, gentle kiss on his lips.

He broke the oral contact and pressed his forehead against his partner’s for a moment. “John, I _mean_ that you have a habit of isolating yourself from everyone when you’re hurting. I understand that it’s been a survival mechanism for you for a very long time, and I don’t expect you to change that anytime soon.” He paused to place a soft kiss on John’s forehead, then leaned back to seek the younger man’s averted eyes. “But I won’t be pushed away from the man I love.”

“I’m not a man anymore,” John whispered, not looking up. “You’ve always deserved someone better. And this just makes that fact concrete.”

Finch knitted his brows in dismay at John’s thinking. “ _None_ of those statements are true.”

John clenched his eyes shut, to prevent even the possibility of meeting Finch’s gaze. “For God’s sake, Finch. I’m a eunuch. A dangerous, dickless freak, liable to blow up and hurt you. I won’t be able to make love to anyone ever again, and I don’t deserve your affection, even if I could.” Tears escaped, despite how tightly he kept his eyes closed. “I can’t have you settle for someone like me.”

Harold took John’s hands back into his own. “John Reese, I am so very _honored_ to live a life entwined with yours. A lack of carnal pleasure could not make me to love you any less, nor could it make me rethink _for even a second_ my desire to spend the remainder of my life with you.”

One of Harold’s palms went again to John’s cheek, as gently as he would cradle a baby bird. John finally was able to open and raise his eyes, Harold’s own pale blue eyes shining with moisture. “And your sex life, John, is far from over. It will just be _different_. We will adapt.”

John wasn’t sure he could believe Finch’s words, even knowing that Harold would never lie to him.

The thought of having any kind of sex with Finch again was enough to elicit a sharp ache beneath John’s bandages, despite the narcotic cloud he floated in. The nerves there were definitely not happy about being severed from the parts they used to connect with. He gasped, pulled his face away from Finch’s hand and groaned, his hands instinctively moving to protectively rest upon his injury.

“Oh God, John,” Finch whispered. “Do you need more morphine?”

“Yes,” he choked. Some tough guy he was. Damaged, defective and weak.

Finch stood and pushed some buttons on the IV infuser. A wave of pain-free tranquility began seeping through John’s body.

John wasn’t sure if it was the morphine or Finch’s earlier words that made the miserable heaviness in his chest lighten. He felt pleasantly weightless and Finch still claimed to love him, even though he was broken beyond repair.

\-----

When Finch emerged from the bedroom, John having fallen into another drug-induced sleep, he found Shaw sprawled across the sofa in the sitting area, Bear also on the sofa and lying half in her lap. She knocked back what was surely not her first Scotch of the night from a lowball glass, Finch’s expensive bottle in her other hand.

“Oh, hello Miss Shaw.” He made no comment about the dog being on the pristine, brand-new sofa.

“How’s he doing?” she asked.

Finch went to the wet-bar and took a lowball glass for himself, his mouth a tight line. Shaw silently offered up the bottle as he sat on the far end of the sofa, Bear’s hindquarters between them, and he poured himself a generous two fingers.

A sip and a few moments later, he found his voice, soft though it was. “Physically, he seems to be doing as well as can be expected.” The second half of his account, about John’s mental state, went unsaid.

The bruise on his face spoke for itself.

“You okay?” She touched the corresponding place on her own face to indicate what she was referring to.

“Yes, thank you.” Another sip and a thoughtful pause. “Any level of domestic violence is unacceptable,” he stated firmly. “But I feel that, under these unusual circumstances, I can forgive him. John was under the influence of painkillers that could have prevented clear thinking. And he had just received some of the worst news a person can possibly hear.”

Shaw nodded in understanding. It still made her feel a little sick to think of Reese’s injury. She’d tried to imagine how she’d feel if someone took a knife to her clit. Hell, the equivalent would be carving off her entire twat. Anger, definitely. No, beyond anger-- Fucking lava-hot rage, despite her “turned down” emotions.

And probably sadness, too, she thought. Sex was one of her favorite activities, next to blowing shit up, killing people who deserved it, playing with Bear and eating.

Then again, she didn’t necessarily think of her cunt as the dominant part of her very being, as so many men seemed to think of their dicks. Even if Reese thought like that only half as much as the average guy... It would still be damaging as hell to lose such an essential part of his very self, from a psychological perspective.

She leaned forward around Bear and took the bottle from the coffee table where Finch had set it, then poured herself another finger, gazing at the amber liquid thoughtfully. Zakayev needed to die a very slow, very painful death, no matter what Finch said. Although, considering the very personal circumstances, he might make an exception to his anti-cruelty, anti-killing policy. Yup, it needed to be very slow, very painful. Death, and nothing less.

Her Scotch went down the hatch.

Ordinarily, Finch would have been affronted by her doing shots with a three-hundred-dollar bottle of single-malt. But tonight he didn’t notice or care.


End file.
